You Astound Me (aka Those Darn Eyes)
by Althea Snape
Summary: The scene from the Tom Blair's Pub rewritten with fem!Shawn. One-shot. Shassie.


"You aren't a real psychic, Shawn!" She and Gus often come to this bar just after solving a case. It's only a few streets down from the Psych office, the drinks aren't too expensive, and the cocktails are guaranteed to come with those little umbrellas she loves. She's got quite a collection now.

"Well, if I wasn't psychic, how would I know that that girl right over there was giving you serious looks?" she says, with a smirk, as Gus looks over his shoulder.

"Oh my god," he quickly turns his head back towards her and winks. "You going to be ok getting home on your own?" Shawn grins.

"Of course, dude. I'll call a cab. I expect a full report tomorrow, by the way, now go!" Gus gives her a quick hug, before making his way towards the brunette. She picks up her drink with a smile, and moves towards the back of the bar, before stopping mid step.

"Lassie?!" He's sitting there on a barstool, right near the back, three empty glasses already on his table, and a fourth clutched in his hand. He looks up at her exclamation, and looks bemused.

"Spencer. Why am I surprised?" He's looking at her with an emotion that's not his usual contempt, which is a first, and this, in combination with the slight slur in his voice, makes her think he's had maybe one drink too many. He's wearing his work clothes, obviously came straight from the station, though his tie is loose, and his sleeves are rolled up, and that vein in his forearm looks quite delicious – she clears her throat.

"Why are you wasted?" she asks, making her way towards him, but he doesn't seem to hear.

"Hey, do you like scotch? Come have a drink with me!" He taps a stool next to him, before ordering two more drinks, and she makes a mental note to make sure he doesn't have any more. "Listen, there is something that I have to get off my chest."

"Is it your shirt? Please say no." She silences the annoying part of her brain that suddenly draws up an image of him removing his shirt, blaming the sudden heat that rises in her cheeks on the pina colada she's just had a sip of. Plus it's summer in California. She's allowed to be warm. She eyes the stool next to him, and decides instead to grab another one from a nearby table, and sits down in front of him. He is just staring at her, head tilted slightly.

"Spencer, you..." he draws a deep breath, watching her closely, "...astound me." If there was anything she was expecting him to say at that moment, this certainly wasn't it.

"Come again?"

He begins talking about her arrest record, her deductive reasoning, "- and I don't believe you're psychic, we both know that's a load of crap. But you, sweetheart, are unstoppable."

Sweetheart. Well, that's new. A strange part of her wants to hear him say it again, but instead she decides to mock him about it. Except. Well. Before she can say anything, he lifts his hand up and brushes a stray hair behind her ear. She idly muses that for the first time since making his acquaintance, she is at a loss for words. He for his part, seems happy to just sit there watching her, his hand lingering on the left side of her face, not quite touching, but close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from it. It is alarmingly difficult to resist the urge to tilt her head slightly so her cheek will make contact with his palm. The moment draws out, until he suddenly pulls his hand back and picks up his drink.

"Can I tell you a secret?" he asks, suddenly sounding unsure and vulnerable, two things she'd never in a million years associate with Lassie. As much as she loves holding things over him, she knows that she needs to stop him talking before he reveals something he'd regret in the morning. She tries changing the subject, but he is undeterred, as he gets up and makes his way around the table to sit on a stool right next to her. He's now so close that she can feel his knee touching the outside of her thigh. He leans forward a bit, going for a whisper, and she can feel his warm breath on her cheek. "You know how everyone thinks my wife and I have been separated for 9 months?"

"Er, yeah?" Talking is becoming increasingly difficult, with the presence of Lassie's lips so close to her ears, and she fights hard to get the words out.

"Two years. Two years TONIGHT." She listens to him ramble on about everything he's tried. Part of her wants to go and find his ex-wife, and throttle her, while another part wants to hold him in her arms and never let him go. In fact, the latter has never seemed more possible. All she'd have to do is turn her body slightly – she quickly silences that traitorous part of her brain, trying to remind herself that she and Lassiter are actually sworn nemeses. When that fails miserably, she instead forces herself to pay attention to what he's saying.

"I have tried and tried to try." He punctuates the last word by downing the remainder of his whisky, and she hates herself for being disappointed that he's had to lean back to get it, and therefore is no longer breathing on her. This is a bad line of thought, and she needs to get out of here before it gets worse.

"Well, I'm going to let you go," she tells him, smiling awkwardly. There's an annoying nagging in the back of her mind telling her she shouldn't leave him alone like this, but Lassie is a grown man. He can take care of himself. "Don't drive."

She turns to leave, but before she can go anywhere, there are long fingers encircling her wrist. She looks back to see that Lassie is now staring at her with wide eyes, and is it possible that they've become an even brighter shade of blue?

"I used to be a good detective, Spencer." He is pulling her closer, and her legs don't seem to be doing much to resist.

"You still are," she tells him, though her voice is strange and raspy, and completely unlike her own. She's now standing between his legs and the table, and she honestly has no idea how she got there, although she is rather more concerned right now by the amount of effort it is taking to stay upright.

"I had a stunning arrest record, you know. One of the best in the department. I caught the back bay killer." She just nods slightly as their eyes meet. His thumb is now ever so softly stroking the inside of her wrist. Breathing is becoming increasingly difficult. "But I had a tip."

"The blue sedan," she mutters subconsciously, before cursing as his thumb freezes in its motions, and he grasps her wrist even more tightly.

"Th...That was you?" he asks, almost dejectedly, before releasing her and turning on his stool to face away from her. She is left standing there, feeling strangely cold as his hand leaves her. She has no idea where this need to comfort him is coming from, but rounds the table, to in front of him.

"Yeah, I gave the tip but you still had to put everything together! So many cops would have struggled with that, but I made sure you had the tip, because I knew you'd -" She pauses suddenly, as if she's revealed too much. She has always valued Lassiter as a detective - he is damn good at his job, but he doesn't need to know. Thankfully, he seems to be in deep thought, head resting on his palm. Suddenly he slaps his palm on the table, and she jumps slightly.

"I've officially hit rock bottom. This case I'm working at the moment, the astronomer. Everything points to natural causes, except I just know it was murder. I know it! I just can't... prove it!" He is reaching for his drink again and she frowns slightly, placing her hand on his wrist, and pinning his arm to the table. He looks up at her, that stupid sad expression on his face, that she just wants to punch off, _or kiss_ – ahem. She draws her hand back quickly.

"You just need to trust your instincts, Lass- Carlton," she stutters. "I...I believe in you." He just shakes his head, hair falling even more out of place.

"Look, Spencer, I am done. Here," he pauses and pulls out a pair of cuffs, the utterly dejected look never leaving his face. "I want you to have these. I obviously won't need them anymore 'cause – " She covers his mouth with her hand to shut him up. _Dear God_ , she thinks. She can feel his lips form a surprised 'o' beneath her palm, and her hand quivers slightly. She needs to focus, before she gets lost in those darn eyes.

"Stop it. You're not _over._ You're an attractive man, with strong features, great posture, and those eyes that I'd-" _Crap_. She clears her throat, looking away quickly her hand dropping to her side. "-erm and great penmanship. You'll get there."

"You think I'm attractive?" It's as if he's completely missed her point (' _what was your point?' asks a traitorous voice in her head that sounds like Gus, and she ignores it.)_ She chances a glance at him, and regrets it almost immediately. His lips are turned up in the slightest of smirks, and his eyes are glinting, filled with something – arousal? Desire?

God, she's screwed.

And she really needs to do something to stop her face moving closer and closer to his. He's absolutely hammered. It would be wrong, like taking advantage –

"Shawn!" Gus. She groans, before plastering a smile on her face and turning to face him.

"Hey, Gus!" she responds, sounding overly cheerful. He's got his coat on, obviously on his way out.

"You're still here? Oh my God, is that Lassie?" he asks, shocked.

"Yeah, I ran into him when I was leaving, thought he probably shouldn't be alone," Shawn says, "but what are you still doing here?" Gus gives his best 'playah' smile.

"Kyra, the _chemical engineer_ , is waiting for me by the door. Turns out she has a secret fondness for men who can recite the entirety of the periodic table backwards. What!" She grins and they bump fists. "Are you sure you're gonna be ok with Lassiter?" Shawn waves a hand dismissively.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I'll just put him in a cab and send him on his merry way. You have a great night, Gus."

"Oh, I will. Night, Shawn." Gus gives her a quick peck on the cheek, before making his way out. She watches him for a minute, gathering herself to face the enigma behind her, but when she turns around, he's no longer on the stool.

"Wha-" She groans, as she catches sight of him passed out on the floor next to her. Damn.

The next morning, she's a little apprehensive walking into the department. She and Lassie were never friends but what they had worked, and she has no idea how a completely sober Lassie will react to last night's revelations. So when it turns out he can't remember a thing, there's a part of her that's grateful and yet she wonders what would have happened if he had remembered. She decides that she doesn't want to dwell on this too much, and focuses all her energy into solving his case and giving him his mojo back.


End file.
